


Roots

by moonblossom



Category: Original Work
Genre: Aging, Experimental Style, Heavy-handed metaphors, Other, POV Second Person, Trees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-12-27 10:51:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time you realise you are different, you are seven years old.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roots

**Author's Note:**

> This is something a little different. I apologise to those of you who come here looking for smutty fanfic, but I just could not get it out of my head.

The first time you realise you are different, you are seven years old. There is a seed pod in your hair – one of those whirligig ones – but when you go to pull it out, it hurts. You tug, and you tug, and it comes out with a stinging pop. You mean to mention it to your mother when you get home, but between the bicycle ride and the popsicles and falling off the jungle gym, somehow you forget. Later, it doesn’t seem important.

When you are twelve, the patch on your ribs starts spreading. It is dark, and rough, and flaky around the edges. But don’t they keep reminding you in health class? Your body is changing, things are going to look weird and feel weird? Maybe everyone has this. You scrub at it in the shower, and while it never quite vanishes it never really spreads, either. You think no more of it.

At eighteen, they steal your heart. _This is the one_ , you know it deep in your soul. You lay yourself bare, and they cover every square inch of your body with kisses. The smooth parts, the scaly parts, and the parts in between. When you join, the sap flows from you like it’s spring, but they say nothing – they are too busy moaning and sighing.

You get married. If your hands begin to stiffen at the joints, if the skin around your eyes turns dusky and rough, they say nothing. You are still beautiful.

For nine months, you worry that the tiny growing creature will be like you. Not here, not there. Living, but not of the living. You have nothing to worry about. Everything about the tiny creature is absolutely pink and plush and perfect.

When you are in your forties, you are standing in front of the mirror, brushing your hair. With every stroke, a cascade of brittle, crackling leaves falls to the floor. It is like walking through the forest in October. You feel at home.

You move slowly now, the creaks and pops of your joints like the wind through the forest in the depth of winter.

It is the dusk of your life. Your canopy has shaded your child, and your child’s child. Every inch of your body is gnarled and twisted, deep gouges running through your skin. You smile, and your eyes sparkle like water droplets. You have set down your roots here. One last time, you reach your branches to the sky and let the sun warm your face.


End file.
